A Possibility of Something Greater
by Dog in the Manger
Summary: Post "Don't Cry", What-if story. A journey into Mary's subconscious. Nothing is what it seems. Expect to see many characters from Seasons 1 though 4 popping up throughout the story. No spoilers for season 5.


**A POSSIBILITY OF SOMETHING GREATER**

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><p><em>Standard Disclaimer applies. <em>

_Enfleurage, thank you for all your hard work as a beta on this story._

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: Old Pictures<strong>

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><p>"<em>One sees clearly only with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eye.'<em>

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

_Le Petit Prince_

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><p>Dim light from a filament pendant bounced off antique plate glass, which covered the walls from the ceiling to leather booth tops. Tarnished edges of these mirrors, rich mahogany crown moldings and ceramic mosaic floors added to the feeling of being in a place remote and foreign. As though a scene from an old film on celluloid roll: the colors around her had faded into sepia, subdued visual stimuli heightening the rest of her senses. Taking in her surroundings, Mary felt apprehensive, not knowing where she was or how she got there.<p>

She looked down at the table, curious to discover a shot, filled with two fingers of dark liquid topped with a thin layer of beige crema, directly in front of her. She ran her finger over the glass rim, inhaling deeply the aroma of freshly brewed espresso, smoky and rich, with a hint of citrus from the lemon peel resting on the side. She lifted the glass to her lips and exhaled before taking a slow and gentle sip. Her eyes fluttered closed from the sensation of smooth and thick liquid coating her tongue and palate. This espresso was what heaven tasted like. She sat by the window, relishing in the complex flavors of the aftertaste, lingering long after she had taken the last sip.

Mary opened her eyes and turned her attention back to the quaint café. There were two patrons ensconced in a booth much like hers against another wall, but otherwise, the place was empty. Glenn Miller played on a phonograph in the corner, filling the air with soft jazz. Somewhere on the outer waves her consciousness, a faint but constant ticking registered its vague presence. It did not bother her though; the sound was soothing away her anxiety, leaving her finally at peace.

The sound of horseshoes clomping on cobblestones outside interrupted her quiet observation. Sliding closer to the picture window, she heard the creak of leather cushions, resenting her weight to shift on the surface, causing undue stress to the old seams. She looked out into the street, expecting to see a horse, but it was just as deserted as it had been moments ago. Running the finger over the rim of her glass, she waited, content in her solitude. She was alone, but did not feel lonely. Just as the thought had crossed her mind, she heard another creak of the cushions and felt the still air move.

"They sure know how to pull an espresso shot here, don't they?" A familiar voice asked her. She turned away from the window to see who had the nerve to interrupt her introspection. A short balding man in a sharp grey suit slid into her booth onto the bench across the table. A shot glass just like hers rested between the thumb and index finger of his hand. She could not shake the feeling that she knew him at some point, but his name escaped her.

"What do you mean? Who are they? What is this place?" she asked, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

"Those are all good questions. I wish I had the answers, Mary. But you'd know who they are and what this place is better than I would. If you don't, that's okay too. All in good time," he said, pausing to take a sip of his espresso and give her time to process what he had told her. She sat in silence, watching him. Her finger never stopped tracing the rim of her glass on the table. He set his glass down and smiled at her. Her reflex response would have been to push him away, but she no longer wanted to be alone.

"How are you, Mary?" he asked softly, reaching out to grasp her hand in his. His touch was light, almost tentative, meant to reassure and bring comfort. His eyes, the color of liquid chocolate, shone with nothing but concern and kindness.

"I… I don't know," she said, realizing she was telling the truth and recoiling from the admission. Her instinct to guard her feelings had always trumped the desire to trust. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

"How about we deal with these questions one at a time? Would that be okay, sweetheart?" he asked, releasing her hand. "Right now, I'm here for you. You understand? For you."

He called her a sweetheart, as though he had that right. The endearment normally made her cringe and she would have expected to lash out at him, yet could not find the words. She nodded in response, waiting for him to continue.

"It's nice outside," he said, rising up from the bench, accompanied by the familiar sound of creaking cushions. "Why don't we go for a walk?"

Mary zipped up her jacket and followed him out, turning around for a brief moment after a few steps to look back at the door, trying to memorize it. She wanted to return for another shot of this espresso at some point soon. Ever so observant, her companion followed her glance and said, "Whenever you feel like coming back here, just decide that you do and you will."

The sound of their footfalls on cobblestone, his wingtips and her heels, echoed off the building walls of the narrow alley. The sun had emerged from the clouds, reflecting off every window of Spanish Colonial houses lining the block and a light breeze ruffled her hair. The air was crisp and pure, without any hint of humidity. She inhaled deeply, catching tantalizing smell of freshly baked bread as they passed a tiny pastry shop. The weather was neither cold nor hot; but just right. The man had not been wrong to tell her it was a good time for a walk.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, falling back a few steps.

"You tell me," he said, gesturing to the building ahead. "It seems as though we've arrived."

Studying the brick front of the structure with wide glass doors and a large marquee with black letters, Mary was enthralled, unable to break away her gaze. The building looked just like Film Forum in the city. Her father had taken her to that independent cinema for a screening of _The Little Prince_ on the day she turned five years old. Brandi had just been born and Mary did not get much time to spend alone with James. As a birthday gift, he had gotten tickets to the premiere and they spent the whole day walking around the Village, just the two of them. She had hoped for another trip to the big city the year after that, but got a pet rock instead.

Mary tried to wrap her head around the ghost of her past. This place was not in New York, of that she was certain. But where? Consumed by the desire to solve the puzzle, she walked up to the door and tentatively reached for the handle, afraid that it would vanish upon contact as a mirage. The metal felt cool and solid to the touch. She pulled open the door and headed inside, forgetting that she had not come alone. But the man walked in after her: his role on this journey was of a guide or an observer. Wherever she chose to lead him, he had to follow her wishes, whether spoken or unspoken.

Expecting to be assaulted by the smell of stale burned popcorn once she was inside, Mary was surprised to discover a pleasant aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg. The scent was oddly familiar, but she could not place it. Trying to focus, she halted abruptly by the entrance to the screening room and leaned against one of the columns breaking up the open foyer. She closed her eyes, feeling the cold from the stone seep through the leather of her jacket and the fabric of her jeans. She rubbed the sole of her boot against the red well-worn carpet. Her heel got caught in a seam, the floor hitched onto her heel. Her eyes shot open. The space around her was still the same glass and steel which it was when she closed them. She jerked her foot free with a crack from the loose thread snapping to release her heel.

Noticing her hesitation, her companion came up to stand next to her. "You're on the right track, Mary, go on," he said, giving her a gentle nudge and heading inside. She peeled herself off the column and followed him almost against her will.

The space was completely empty. They had to be alone in the entire building: there were no ushers, ticket agents, custodians or other patrons. The screening room was dark and eerily quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Vintage sconces adorned each wooden wall panel, emitting a soft glow.

"Why don't you pick a seat? We might be staying a while. I believe we're here for a private screening," he said, breaking the silence. He cast an appraising glance at the space furnished with black high back chairs and gestured to the left. "This row looks comfortable."

"Sure, I'll pick a seat, but only after you tell me who the hell you are," she said, gripping the back of a chair for purchase. Gliding her fingers over the polished wood, she sighed. "I'm tired of this game."

She released the back of the chair she was gripping and folded her arms across her chest with a frown.

"Alas, it's not a game. But you will need patience to get over this hurdle," he said, taking a step back and settling in a chair.

"What the hell are you talking about, Stan? Why do you insist on speaking in riddles? For someone who says he's here for me, you sure aren't very helpful," she said, stifling a gasp in realization that his name along with details of her life came back to her in a flash as soon as her temper flared up. Stepping back, she flopped into a chair, fixing him one of her signature glares. The seat thumped against the back under her weight and silence descended on the space once again.

"See, this wasn't nearly as hard to remember as you thought, was it? Trust me, if I could tell you anything I would." He studied his shoes, as though deciding whether it was time to get them polished.

"Didn't you say we're here to see something? Or is this part of a dream when I wake up to your telling me I got a stack of paperwork in my inbox, which was due yesterday?" she asked, falling back into familiar territory of making snarky remarks to mask her inner turmoil.

"Not likely, Mary, no," he said softly. She saw a shadow of sadness cross his face, but he quickly composed himself and pointed to the wall ahead. "This isn't a dream. Just watch. The feature film awaits you."

The lights dimmed and the curtains parted, revealing a silver screen. It flickered: black and while images springing to life. Mary looked up at the screen and froze, seeing herself in the back of her house, going through boxes, on the day she had just moved in. She knew the conversation that was coming without having to watch it unfold in black and white. She closed her eyes and listened to the words wash over her as her mind painted her a memory in vivid color.

_She made it into her kitchen and leaned on her counter._

"_Check this out. One is my bedroom. One is my office. And the other one is, I have no idea. How great is that? I've got an entire room with no defined purpose. I could fill it with cornflakes if I wanted," she had said to her partner, carrying a box into the back._

"_Not sure this neighborhood is zoned for cornflakes. But an intriguing notion, nonetheless," he said with a smirk, going through a box of stuff on the counter._

"_Okay, then. Sand. I could fill it with sand. Better yet, bullets. You can never have too many bullets. That's my bullet room. I have a bullet room," she said walking back into the kitchen._

"_Well, as long as it's something practical. Oh. I brought you coffee and a bagel." He patted a brown bag in front of him._

"_You suck." She reached into her fridge and pulled out a bottle of greenish concoction._

"_Excuse me? Oh. Still with the juice fast? Aren't you crabby enough without adding spirulina to the mix?"_

"_Bite me. I'm trying to do something healthy for a change." She flopped on a bar stool, averting her eyes from the blue gaze of her partner. It was unsettling how much his words had affected her._

The screen flickered again: the scenes fast forwarding. And Mary had an inkling about what was about to be shown. She gripped the wooden armrests of her chair, hoping she had been wrong in her assumption…

_She stood behind tempered glass of an interrogation room at APD. Bobby was grilling her witness about a recent homicide and her partner stood guard by the door. Marshall's expression was stern, but he remained deceptively motionless. It was obvious to anyone who really knew him that he was poised to pounce on a moment's notice._

"_Worst law enforcement idea in the last 100 years. Male-female partners. Do you know that nine times out of ten, they end up screwing or killing each other? Or both? Ten bucks says she did it," Eps said, only too eager to provoke people in the room._

"_You bastard! You bastard! Bastard!"_

_The dead cop's partner clawed at him and Bobby waited a bit to pull her off._

"_Easy!" Marshall intercepted._

_A few minutes later Mary was walking next to Marshall through the gallery._

"_Hey. So, where do you want to start?" he asked, as always following but a step behind her._

"_This morning, you were ready to fry Eps. Now you want to help him?" she asked, charging ahead._

"_No, I want to help you," he said, still looking at her. She glanced up at him in surprise, getting lost in the intensity of his azure gaze. Looking away, she increased her pace, and rattled off the plan of action to avoid dealing with the implication of his words. She had hurt him, and yet he still stood by her side, unwavering._

The screen faded to black, the wall sconces gradually increased their glow, filling the room with orange flickering light, casting shadows down to the floor. The space was quiet except for barely audible whoosh of the air conditioning and faint ticking sound in the background. A moment later she heard her own voice echo through the space.

"_Perhaps the most difficult choices to make are the ones that deny us those things our heart wants most. Because as it's been said, without reason nor prudence the heart wants what the heart wants. And more often than not it will not be denied."_

Mary slumped in the chair, unable to move a muscle. Her life was made into a movie. Realization dawned: there was no way to unlearn what she now knew. Surreptitiously wiping tears from her eyes, Mary turned to the left to ask Stan where they were going next, but saw that she was once again alone. Choking up, she jumped from the chair accompanied by a loud thud from the seat connecting with the chair's back, and scrambled for the exit. She felt as if the walls were closing in on her. She rushed through the building, searching for escape. The sound of her footsteps was absorbed by the carpet, but she did not notice. Even if she could not get home, she at least had to get outside, into the street, lest she lost herself in the old movie theater.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Forgotten Places<strong>

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><p><em>Then you shall judge yourself," the king answered, "that is the most difficult thing of all. It is much more difficult to judge oneself than to judge others. If you succeed in judging yourself rightly, then you are indeed a man of true wisdom. <em>

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

_Le Petit Prince_

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><p>Mary ran through the door of the old movie theater, expecting to find herself on a sidewalk. But as soon as she went over the threshold, she realized that the world had changed around her. Panting, she stopped, trying to catch her breath and get her bearings. She was no longer in a city. Instead of a street paved with cobblestones, she was standing on a dirt road, covered with a thick coat of mulch.<p>

"_Cedar,_" she thought absently, flipping a piece with the tip of her boot.

She looked up. The sky was bright blue with wisps of white clouds. The sun was shining through the crowns of black oak, red maple and white ash trees. A gentle breeze ruffled her hair and carried a scent of drying foliage into her nostrils. The leaves were changing their hues from bright greens into reds, yellows and oranges right before her eyes.

_"Jesus, what is this place? And what the hell am I doing here?_" Mary kicked a rock at her feet in frustration.

"Ouch!"

If this were a dream, she should not have felt any pain.

"_Not a dream then,_" she thought, wiggling her toes. Trying to make sense of her surroundings, Mary snagged a rubber band off her wrist and pulled her hair back into a high ponytail. It had gotten warmer since that morning, or what she figured for morning, when she had had her peculiar conversation with Stan. She did not have a watch, so she did not know what time of the day it had been then. It occurred to her that time was of little consequence to her now.

She sighed. Standing around did not get her any closer to figuring out where she was, so she had to decide where to go next. She no longer paid any attention to the ticking sound that had followed her everywhere, considering it a part of her existence in this bizarre place. Instead, she strained to hear anything other than the rustle of leaves in the wind.

She glanced at her left hand, then shoved it into her pocket to retrieve her engagement ring, but did not find it there.

"_Was the engagement even real?_" she thought, rubbing her bare ring finger. "_Where is that gaudy thing?_"

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the image of her partner's blue eyes filled with anguish. She would not have been able to imagine him going through that kind of pain unless she had witnessed, or rather inflicted it. Maybe it was for the best that she did not have the ring in her possession.

Mary stood still, taking slow breaths to stop her hands from shaking when she heard horseshoes clomping in the distance. She whirled around and saw a black Thoroughbred. The horse was saddled, but without a rider, trotting through a clearing in the distance. Mary briefly thought about going after it, but dismissed the thought. If Marshall could not outrun a horse, she was not about to try. She stared after the graceful animal, overwhelmed by her rebellious thoughts. Would she have found herself trapped in this place had she acted upon the emotion she had felt before Marshall chucked off their kiss as inconsequential? What is she did not cowardly accept his explanation, "_I'm a guy. It's what we do."_ She shook her head: wondering what might have been did not get her any closer to getting out of her predicament.

Looking around, Mary spotted a gigantic redwood tree. Indigenous to California, it looked decidedly out of place in a temperate broadleaf forest.

"_Get out of my head, Marshall,_" she thought, an involuntary smile tugging up the corners of her lips. Unable to look away from the tree, she made her way over. In the middle of its humongous trunk was a carved door with an iron lion's head for a handle.

_"Why the hell not?"_ she decided, pulling at the narrow ring in the lion's mouth. Her hand slid on the smooth metal and pinched her skin. She took out a pair of gloves. _"Where did these come from?"_ flashed through her mind, but she was more focused on getting the door open, than mulling over that question. She firmly grasped the ring with both hands to pry the door open with all the strength she could muster, pitting her body's weight against it. Her efforts paid off: the door opened with a loud crack and a flash of white light. The smell of ozone assaulted her senses and the force of the door's outward swing knocked Mary off her feet.

When Mary got her vision back, she was sitting on a pile of small rocks on the ground in a narrow passage between large gray boulders covered with dull moss. The sun had hidden in the low dreary clouds. The salty air was filled with the scent of iodine and wet wood. Pushing up against the rocks, she got to her feet and walked unsteadily up the winding path to the shore. Waves bubbled up, breaking against the polished stones and the black sand of the deserted beach, and then rolled back. Bits and pieces of coral lay with tangled sea grass where the rising tide had left them among the rocks. Boulders of various sizes, all towering over Mary's height, were dispersed in the lagoon. Mary shivered as the strong gust of wind got under her jacket. She had to find shelter before she caught a cold. There was nowhere to hide on this patch of sand. She had to make it to the other side, which meant trudging through the ocean. She took her first step in, underestimating its depth and sank into the frigid water up to her knees.

"Son of a bitch," she swore loudly, splashing through to get around a particularly large rock.

Emerging on the other side, she fought the chill from her wet boots and jeans. The beach looked exactly the same as it did on the other side: all rocks and black sand. Only now she was freezing and dripping wet. Mary stared at the horizon and the gathering clouds. Storm would hit the shore soon. She zipped up her jacket, looking around for cover.

"Ahem."

Mary spun around, startled. A woman was leaning against the hood of an eggplant Probe. She was bundled up in a blue wool coat and a pair of black leather boots. A sly smile was playing on her lips.

"Eleanor, what the hell are you doing here?" Mary asked with a frown masking her surprise.

"Waiting for you," Eleanor said, shrugging off the question as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Get in the car before the storm hits. It's would be best to get out of here."

"If that's my car, I wouldn't count on it…"

Before Mary could finish the phrase, Eleanor snapped her fingers. The car morphed into a Shelby G.T. 350.

"Better?" Eleanor asked with a chuckle. "Or… How about this?" She snapped her fingers again. The car changed into a Bentley Continental GT.

"Mary, get in. Or are you going to stand here until we get soaked?"

"Give me the keys. I'll drive," Mary said, walking around to the driver's side.

Eleanor tossed her the key-ring. "Don't get the mats wet."

Mary caught it with a glare. "And how do you propose I do that?" she asked, pulling at the handle of the car door.

"I had always thought you were a smart girl, Mary. Figure it out." Eleanor winked.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" Mary asked, looking down at her wet jeans and boots.

"A bit… I have to admit though; it's not much fun when you're off your game." Eleanor studied Mary as though trying to decide whether to help her or not. Having made up her mind, she smiled and snapped her fingers a third time. The slushy feeling between Mary's toes disappeared almost immediately. She was now dry and relatively warm.

"Can you stop the finger snapping? It's annoying."

"I knew I should not have expected a_ thank you_, but this takes your disregard for common courtesy to a whole new level. Maybe I should have left you cold and wet. And not let you drive this nice car."

"Thank you," Mary muttered, "Can we leave now?"

"That wasn't so hard was it? We should hurry. I'll tell you when to exit the highway."

Both women got inside the car. After bone chilling wind, being warm almost made up for the discomfort of being in the water. Almost. Mary started the ignition. Driving away from this bleak beach would make it better. Looking up from the dash, she saw a highway stretching far into the horizon. She had not seen it before, but questioning how things changed around here was futile. Weird did not begin to describe it.

Mary revved up the engine and floored the gas. They were zero-to-sixty in 4.9 seconds flat. She leaned on the gas and the car accelerated, bringing a smile to Mary's face. She hummed contentedly.

"What's the deal, Eleanor?" Mary asked, listening to the whoosh of tires on the smooth blacktop. She looked at the other woman. "Am I dead?"

"No. But keep this up and you'll certainly kill us both," Eleanor said, gesturing ahead. "Either pull over or keep your eyes on the road. And take the next right." She turned away, watching trees replace concrete walls on the side of the highway.

Mary huffed, but said nothing. She lowered the speed and turned off onto a country road without jostling them too much. Mary sure could get used to driving this car; it hugged the road beautifully.

"Make another right and stop by the iron gates on the left," Eleanor said without turning her head. Mary pulled over and killed the engine. Both women got out of the car.

The sky was bright blue, not cloud in sight, and the sun was out again, making the world around them sharper somehow, more pristine. It was quiet, but not disconcertingly so. A breeze, carrying the smell of mowed grass, replaced the vicious wind. They had not spent much time driving, but it was considerably warmer than on the beach. A green well-manicured lawn stretched beyond the wrought iron fence, split by a sand covered path, which, as Mary realized with a shock, lay between neat rows of headstones. Eleanor was through the gates first, her heels sinking into the ground.

"A graveyard, Eleanor? Seriously?" Mary asked, taking a step back with a disgruntled expression.

"There's something I have to do here and since I can't leave you alone, you have to come with me." Eleanor tossed over her shoulder, charging ahead without giving Mary as much as a second glance.

"And why can't you just leave me while you do whatever it is you need to do?" Mary said under her breath, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

"What in our history together would make you believe I'll do what you tell me?" she asked louder.

"You'll do it if you know what's good for you. Haven't you noticed yet? As soon as you are alone, you wander off or get lost. Am I right?" Eleanor asked, turning around to face Mary.

"Uh-huh. Fine, I'm right behind you." Mary shrugged and picked up her pace.

"Good. We're almost there," Eleanor said, resuming her walk.

They headed up the path in silence and stopped next to a dark granite headstone. Mary read the name and dedication.

_John E. Prince_

_1961 – 2008_

_To live in hearts we leave behind_

_Is not to die._

Eleanor kneeled by the headstone, arranging a small bouquet of flowers in a vase. After she was happy with the look, she gingerly ran her fingers over the letters on the stone, whispering indiscernibly. Mary was almost sure Eleanor did not have any flowers with her when they had left the car. And yet, there they were: white daisies and blood-red carnations. Mary played with a stray lock of hair that had gotten out of her ponytail, fighting the feeling that she was intruding on a private moment.

Finally, Eleanor got back to her feet and said quietly, "My John loved the poetry of Thomas Campbell. When we got married, the last thing I imagined that I'd need the words he held so dear to him for this. Life doesn't always turn out the way you think…"

Eleanor faltered, brushing a tear out of the corner of her eye.

"It's true, you know… in some way my John is still alive. He's right here, with me." She put her hand over her heart, staring into the distance.

Mary fidgeted with the zipper on her jacket. She had once hurt this woman with insinuating that she had made up a story of having been married, when Eleanor had done nothing but tried to help her. Despite the error of her judgment staring her in the face, Mary had never been comfortable owning up to her mistakes. Another image from the same day floated into her mind and she heard Marshall's soothing voice. "W_hat about what you want? At some point, that has to matter, too._" Even if she knew where she was, she had no idea what she wanted. This was it, wasn't it? She had thought earlier that she needed to find a way out of this place at all costs, but she was no longer so sure. She pushed the thought away to mull over later, after she took care of the grief-stricken woman in front of her.

"Would you like some coffee?" Mary asked, dropping her hands from her jacket. They were not friends, most days they were not even friendly, but she wanted to do something, anything, to ease Eleanor's pain. "I know just the place… If I can get us there."

"Coffee would be lovely," Eleanor said, shivering, and focused her eyes on Mary.

Stan had told Mary that in order to return to the café, she just had to decide she wanted to, but he did not mention whether she could bring anyone along. Hoping it would do the trick, Mary took Eleanor's hand when they approached the iron gates.

"Close your eyes," Mary said softly, "and go with it. I will tell you when we're there."

Mary shut her eyes and pictured them in the street paved with cobblestones. The next moment, a distinct aroma of fresh espresso filled her nostrils. But Eleanor's hand was no longer in hers. Mary's eyes shot open: she expected to have lost Eleanor, but the woman was sitting in Mary's booth, smiling. Trying not to show relief that washed over her, Mary slid onto the bench across from Eleanor and chuckled at the familiar creak of the leather cushions. Two shots of espresso sat on the tabletop, waiting to be savored.

"This is really something. I would have never thought you liked Glenn Miller," Eleanor said, her eyes twinkling.

"Good lord, woman, I bring you to a coffee shop I like and you analyze me?"

"Mary, let's not get ahead of ourselves. No one in the right mind would try to do that, unless they were paid to… or were Marshall."

Eleanor took a small sip from her glass, pretending to overlook Mary's eyes flash with hurt, fear, and regret upon hearing his name.

"Since you and I both know you aren't Marshall, did you show up to annoy me?" Mary asked with a glare.

"I've rescued you from a nasty place. That has to count for something. You offered me coffee. I'd say we're about even," Eleanor said, undeterred by Mary's anger.

Mary scoffed, "Oh, please, spare me the concerned act."

"Contrary to what you might believe, Mary, I care about what happens to you. Even if we don't always see eye to eye."

"Great. Now what? We hug? Roast s'mores over the fire and sing Kumbayah? Mary asked, pointing to a large fireplace in the corner.

Eleanor ignored Mary's outburst.

"Before you were sitting in this coffee shop this morning, what's the last thing you remember?"

The fact that Eleanor knew what Mary had done earlier was downright creepy, but the question drew Mary's attention away from contemplating that fact. Mary furrowed her eyebrows, trying to remember something other than the argument with Marshall about her impending nuptials, commitment phobia, and spilling the beans about the job to Raph. She came up blank. It seemed as though her life before this morning was a blur of disconnected images.

Mary picked up her espresso and inhaled deeply. Closing her eyes, she tried to bring back at least one tangible memory, which would help her untangle the knot that had formed in her mind. First Mary remembered next to nothing, and then in a flash…

"We were at the office, you and Marshall gushing over projecting a positive outlook on life..."

The images were coming together, becoming a coherent memory: Day, showing up with Francesca, getting Mary assigned as security detail at the mansion, and then moving them to a rundown shack in a bad neighborhood. She remembered having to call Bobby when the gang-bangers started making trouble, walking out onto the porch and then… blackness.

"This doesn't make any sense, Eleanor."

"Hmm?" Eleanor looked up from her glass. "What doesn't?"

"You and me, here… since you did tell me that I'm alive…"

"Oh, I never said you were alive, Mary. You asked me if you were dead. And dead – you are not. There is a difference," she said before finishing her espresso. "I've told you everything I know. Thanks for the coffee."

Mary glanced at the fireplace, gathering her thoughts for a response, but when she turned to look at Eleanor, the woman was gone. The café was completely still and the only thing Mary heard was a familiar ticking sound.

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><p><strong>Chapter 3: Time Warp<strong>

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><p>"<em>One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed..."<em>

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

_Le Petit Prince_

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><p>A little while after Eleanor had left the café, Mary looked into her mug before finishing the last of her tea, contemplating what she now knew of her existence. The implication of Eleanor's words was clear: Mary had gotten stuck between the realm of the living and the not. Curiously, she was no longer able to call it the "<em>realm of the dead,<em>" now that there was a distinct possibility of becoming a part of it forever. Mary studied the tea leaves on the bottom of the mug as though they held the solution to her predicament. There had to be a reason why she had gotten stuck here. She had a sinking suspicion that she would not be able to rejoin the living until she knew what it was.

Mary had switched from espresso to hot rooibos tea earlier because battling jitters from too much caffeine and trying to decide what to do next seemed like a bad idea. She had considered getting a hot chocolate, but decided against it. Real or not, having chocolate with chocolate was overkill. A slice of German Chocolate pie was entirely too enticing to pass up. Normally, she was not much of a tea drinker, but this blend was surprisingly fragrant. She discerned notes of vanilla and coconut, which complemented her pie perfectly. Even though the combination was absolutely sinful, it did nothing to make her feel better. The realization that she had no recollection of a moment when she had become a part of this realm prevented her from enjoying the pleasures it had to offer.

There had to be a way out, Mary just had to find it. Getting the missing memory back seemed like a good starting point. But first, she had to see if she could manipulate this world. Second… she would cross that bridge when she got to it.

Mary pushed her empty plate aside and rose from the booth. There was no sound from the cushion. Mary smiled. She was able to control certain facets of this reality with conscious effort. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. Leaving the café, however, posed a whole new challenge. So far, every time she had gone through a door she ended up in a new place. But she got both her and Eleanor from the cemetery to the café with the strength of her willpower alone. It stood to reason that if she wanted to cross a threshold she had to have a destination in mind or her subconscious would make a decision for her. Recalling the deserted beach, she shuddered. She had no desire to revisit that place.

"_Eyes on the prize, Mary,"_ she told herself_, "focus, damn it."_

She hesitated by the door of the café, conjuring an image of the destination in her mind's eye. If her attempt to get home failed, she was certain she could always return here. Letting the air out of her lungs, she closed her eyes and took a step over the threshold. She felt a rush of cold air against her skin and opened her eyes. She stood on the porch of her house in Albuquerque. Dusk was descending on her yard. Everything around her was just as she had left it, including a loose stone on the second step. Sticking her hand into her pocket to dig out the keys, Mary shivered. The season was wrong: last she had left her house was in the middle of the summer.

Walking inside, she took in the busted walls with insulation showing through the holes, the ruined floorboards, and the mess in the kitchen… undeniably, this was her house. She made her way through the dark hallway to her bedroom and froze at the entrance. Raph was in bed with another woman. Mary seethed: how dare he cheat on her in her own house? She was about to scream or throw something at them when she saw the other woman's face and _the Perfect Book for Dominican Shortstops_ on Raph's nightstand.

Mary stumbled back. This was impossible. Completely backwards. She blinked slowly, then pinched her wrist and cried out in pain. Looking away from the couple, she walked to the nightstand and picked up her cell phone.

"_The hell…?"_ she swore under her breath.

She hated time travel movies… now she managed to get stuck in one. The date on the screen of her BlackBerry was weeks before the last day she remembered. _"What happened on that porch with Francesca?"_ she thought in aggravation at her inability to remember a thing after walking out of the shack. She dropped the phone onto the nightstand and quickly left her bedroom. It was one thing to remember having sex with your fiancé; witnessing it first hand was quite another. Creepy did not begin to describe it.

Mary came out into her living room and had to pinch her wrist once again. Even in the dim light from the adjoining room she could see that gone were the holes in the walls, the old furniture and the kitchen. Her house had been completely redone. Turning toward the light, she found Raph sitting at the computer. She walked over and leaned over his shoulder to check the date. It was January of the next year. She tried to still the tremor in her hands and figure out how she got from weeks before her last memory to four months after. _"The bedroom door."_ This time warp confirmed her earlier assumption: whenever she crossed a threshold without thinking, the realm changed beyond her control.

"_Go figure. I think I hate time travel now more than ever. If Marshall makes me watch another one of his stupid movies I'm going to…"_ She stopped her train of thought abruptly, realizing that she would be lucky if she ever got a chance to sit next to Marshall on his couch, watching a movie. Any movie.

Mary sank into an upholstered chair behind her fiancé and pinched the bridge of her nose. Raph seemed oblivious to her presence, preoccupied with surfing the web. At the sound of approaching footsteps, Mary turned and gaped at the sight of her future self. Assuming this was her future, she must have figured out how to get out of this limbo. If only she could ask her future self for a tip. Meanwhile, the other Mary walked over to Raph.

"Hey," she said softly. He had turned away from the computer and sat, looking up, his gaze locked with hers. He waited a beat before responding.

"Hi."

His tone was plaintive, almost contrite. Warning bells went off in Mary's head, but her counterpart pushed on.

"You okay?" She titled her head to the side.

"I think we should have a talk." Raph rose from the chair and placed his hands on his hips. His eyes were now darting around the room as though unable to meet hers.

"Okay," she said, leaning against the French door.

Raph took a few steps closer, reached out and put his hand on her shoulder.

Mary watched the scene unfold, as her insides coiled into a tight knot dreading what came next.

"I don't think we should get married in July. Or at all," he said quietly.

Mary slumped in the chair when she heard the words leave his mouth. She did not care about the way her future self handled the news. Something inside broke off and shattered, but she realized that she felt nothing but regret.

"_This is how it ends? Anticlimactic,"_ she thought, rubbing her empty ring finger. _"So not how I imagined this going down… Weird. Quiet. Almost too quiet."_

She had never had any doubts that her engagement was doomed.

"_Everyone left one way or another. 'When' was only a question of time… Irrelevant at the moment."_

The low sound of Raph's voice brought her out of the reverie and back to her house, where he was breaking off their engagement.

"Life isn't short. It's long. And honestly, I don't know if... If you love me enough to make this work," he said, his voice breaking.

"Oh. I do love you."

She was looking into his eyes, as though searching for something. And her own were bright with unshed tears.

"But enough?" he asked as she swallowed back a sob.

"Maybe that's why it's been so difficult."

He attempted a crooked smile, but failed. He leaned in closer to her before continuing, but she refused to meet his eyes and looked down.

"If I'm wrong, you'll say something before I get out of here. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, tilting her head up for what they both knew was their last kiss.

Mary rose and moved to stand next to her future self, watching Raph leave the house and the other Mary close her eyes in pain, letting him leave. There was nothing she could say to stop him. He was right: she did not love him enough to make their relationship work. The job had always mattered more than he had. They were headed for disaster from the start. She had known it as soon as she unfolded his note after her birthday party the year before. It took him longer to catch on, but he had finally accepted her definition of them and, clearly, for him it was not enough. The revelation was by no means painless, albeit true.

While her future self-grappled with the reality of another failed relationship, Mary felt as though the air had gotten sucked out of the room. Struggling to breathe, she was barely able to refrain from breaking into a run. She pulled open the front door, thinking she had to get out of her house… But the moment she crossed the threshold, her feet landed on gravel. Thoughtless running had landed her into another situation. Whirling about, she recognized the house in front of her. The front yard looked worse for wear, different from how she was used to seeing it. It was as if someone had taken a shovel to the normally neatly trimmed hedge and hacked off all the decorative cacti.

"_It could have been worse,"_ she thought, twisting an errant lock of hair between her fingers. _"I could have wound up in some hellhole… not Marshall's driveway."_

Mary contemplated going inside the house, but realized that she was not up to taking a chance with another door. She wanted to see Marshall. She leaned on his truck parked in the driveway, waiting for her partner to appear. It was early in the morning, not evening as it was only seconds ago. She watched the sun rise at the horizon between the Sandia Mountains. It was not surprising that Marshall had picked a house with a view. On more than one occasion she had found him stretched out in one of the lawn chairs on his patio, stargazing or staring at the mountains. The memory calmed her rattled nerves. The regret that overwhelmed her was replaced with anticipation. She hoped Marshall would be able to see her.

Mary was certain she would not have to wait for her partner for too long. An early riser, he did not disappoint. Before she could wrap her mind around his odd landscaping job, Marshall emerged from the house and practically ran down the stairs. Her hopes dissolved when he walked around the truck. Mary had to resist the urge to reach out for him. It was futile. Unlike the encounters with Stan and Eleanor, her semi-conscious efforts to navigate this realm resulted in her wandering about invisible to others. Casting this idiosyncrasy aside, Mary climbed into Marshall's truck before he drove off without her.

Marshall did not see the door of his truck open or close. Mary buckled in just in time. He peeled out of the driveway: gravel flying from under the wheels, tires leaving skid marks on the road's blacktop.

"_Well, isn't this something,_" Mary thought, studying Marshall's profile. "_I would have never guessed that he drives like a maniac when I'm not around._"

They were flying through the streets of Albuquerque. To Mary's surprise, Marshall did not turn on the radio or plug in his IPod. He was driving with a purpose, sunglasses over his eyes and eyebrows furrowed. She wondered what this was about until Marshall rolled into a parking lot. In a flash he was out of the truck, disappearing behind the door of the coffee shop they frequented when visiting witnesses before heading into the office.

Mary waited inside, putting together a puzzle that was Marshall Mann this morning. She had noticed the new lines around his eyes, the rough stubble on his chin and the hard edge of his movements. She wondered what could have caused her usually mild-mannered partner to be wound up so tightly. Marshall returned with two coffees and a pastry bag. He stuck the coffees into the cup holders and tossed the bag onto the front seat. It landed right in Mary's lap, but Marshall did not notice. Mary figured she would have to move into the back once the current version of her showed up. Although, as Marshall drove it did not look like he was going to her neighborhood. In fact, once she recognized the route, she became increasingly concerned with the direction he was taking. In her current state, she would not be much of a backup.

Mary's suspicions were confirmed when Marshall put the truck in park by the raggedy shack that Francesca had chosen as her hide-out. Mary reached for Marshall's arm before he got out, but missed and had to follow him out. There was controlled determination in his gait, a resolve, with which he looked around, smiling widely and taking swigs from his coffee cup.

She recognized the thug staring at Marshall from behind the fence: Lala. It did not look like he was surprised to see her partner. Watching the silent exchange between two men, Mary wondered how often Marshall came to this neighborhood and why. Meanwhile, Marshall stopped across from Lala. Setting down his coffee, he wiggled his eyebrows.

"Oye, Cabron, what is it with you?" Lala asked with a jerk of his chin.

Marshall leaned on the fence and said, "I have the right to drink my coffee and eat my Danish anywhere I want, and that's the wondrous, high-wire balancing act of democracy."

He grinned and took a generous bite from his Danish. Lala looked away, but Marshall continued, unperturbed by the other man's apparent discomfort.

"Did you know the first Danish was raspberry with almond flakes? The cheese Danish actually came later. Cheese is, in my opinion, the bolder breakfast choice. Like crack."

Mary stood a few feet away, listening to their conversation, trying to understand why Marshall was antagonizing a gang-banger on his home turf. She remembered Lala being a pest when she stayed at the shack with Francesca, but surely that was not a good enough reason for Marshall's behavior.

A car was rolling by slowly. Chewing thoughtfully, but without as much as a second glance, Marshall flashed his badge at the driver, who took it as his clue to speed off.

Putting away the bi-fold, Marshall said, "And once again, my daily visit causes the revenue on your block to take an icy plunge. Black, four sugars, right?" He set a large cup of coffee on the fence in front of Lala.

"_Daily visit?"_ Mary could not believe what she was hearing. _"What the hell are you doing, numb nuts?"_ She would have ripped him a new one if she could.

"I don't take nothing. I don't give nothing. Ever," Lala said, every word dripping with venom.

"Lala." Marshall leaned into the other man's space.

"My partner got shot right over there, and you saw who did it. I know it. You know it. And you're going to tell me. Or I say the three scariest words I know. Ready?"

Marshall paused, and then grinned widely. "See you later."

Mary's inner rant came to a screeching halt. She had been shot across the street. Days? Weeks? Months ago? Marshall turned his back to Lala and walked to the truck. Lala knocked the coffee cup off the fence and the liquid sloshed right through Mary's body. She felt numb and had to grab onto the fence for purchase. Now it made sense why she could not remember anything after the altercation with Lala's crew. A myriad of questions flooded her brain, making her dizzy. She had to find where she was. Not the ephemeral being she had become in this realm, but her real body or what was left of it.

While she tried to regain her composure, she missed that Marshall's truck had left the neighborhood. She was about to get mad at her partner for leaving her there, but caught herself. Marshall had no idea he had brought a passenger. But without his truck, Mary had only one other travel alternative. She hoped that specifying the time, but not the place would land her where she needed to be. Resolved to follow Marshall, she walked past Lala to the familiar shack. There was a door she could walk though. Shutting her eyes tightly and thinking she needed to find Marshall on the same day, she stepped over the threshold.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4: Visiting Hours<strong>

* * *

><p><em>I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward and blundering. I did not know how I could reach him, where I could overtake him and go on hand in hand with him once more.<em>

_It is such a secret place, the land of tears._

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

_Le Petit Prince_

* * *

><p>Mary smelled the disinfectant in the artificially circulated air and heard a soft voice along with the faint ticking sound before she built up the courage to open her eyes. Her plan worked. She stood in a hospital room next to a heart monitor, which was the source of the rhythmic beeping that she had grown to accept as part of her reality.<p>

Even though Mary knew who she would find in the hospital bed, she had to look for something to lean on for support. Closing her eyes again, she struggled to reign in her wayward emotions. The ICU was too quiet for her liking. She remembered the protocol from the time she was at the hospital after Marshall had been shot. Marshall was sitting by her side, so she could not have been too severely injured, or he would not have been allowed to spend the night.

Once she regained control over her emotions, she opened her eyes and pushing off the wall. Running her fingers through the blonde tresses draped over the pillow and trying to avoid looking at her own face, she glanced at her partner. In the dim light from a small fluorescent lamp, he looked even more haggard than at the time when she had seen him last. His five o'clock shadow filled out and the lines, framing his eyes and mouth, sunk even deeper. The telltale signs of exhaustion mixed with grief.

Mary wanted to offer him comfort, but was hyperaware of the limitations of her current condition to even try. She took a step back and slid into a chair on the other side of the bed: from that vantage point she could see her injured body and Marshall, reading his book. His soothing voice was lulling her to sleep, when she was jolted awake by a sound of the footsteps in the otherwise quiet hallway.

Marshall heard the sound in the hall at the same time as Mary. She watched him set the book down on the nightstand and turn in the chair to face the door. Noticing tension lock up his shoulders, she jumped off her chair. Realizing she would be just as invisible to the other visitor, Mary edged closer to Marshall, stopping behind his chair.

"_Here goes nothing,"_ she thought, letting her hand linger over his shoulder for a split second, before finding its way down. Mary could feel the warmth of his body radiating through the fabric of his tailored jacket. She ran her fingers over the smooth material, but Marshall did not respond to the contact. Releasing a breath she was unaware she was holding, she propped her hip against his chair, resting her arm over his back and her hand flat on his shoulder. She would fulfill the promise she had given Marshall on the collapsed construction site when Lewis was impaled under the rubble just a few months ago. She would stand by him no matter what, even if he could not feel her presence.

The tension rolling off her partner was almost palpable as he expectantly stared at the door. It opened slowly. Stan walked in, wearing a grim expression. Mary assumed the men had seen each other at the office, and as such, was not surprised they skipped the pleasantries. Both of them regarded each other silently as though neither wanted to be the first to speak.

Stan hesitated at the foot of Mary's bed, taking in her still form. Mary caught a faint smile touch her boss' eyes before he looked away, turning his attention to Marshall, and broke the tense silence.

"It's been five days, Marshall."

Mary stifled a gasp. It was hard enough to wrap her mind around seeing her body in a hospital bed, unconscious and hooked up to machines, but to hear that she had been out of it for five days was mind boggling. She fisted her hand on Marshall's shoulder, hanging on for dear life, and braced herself for the rest of the conversation.

"Mary was weaned off the ventilator today. She's breathing on her own. That's a good sign," Marshall said softly, but Mary heard the steely undertone in his voice. There was no doubt in her mind that Stan did not miss it either.

"You're right, she does look better…" Mulling something over, Stan made his way over to Marshall's chair. Putting his hand on Marshall's shoulder and missing Mary's fingers by an inch, Stan said, "You're running on fumes. You have to go home, get some rest."

"As I told you yesterday, just as every other night you've brought this up, I'm not going anywhere …" Marshall said, scowling at his boss.

Mary was taking aback by her partner's expression. She had seen him furious before, hell, she had been the culprit of his anger, but she had never seen him this livid. She could see Stan's concern for Marshall, which was lost on Marshall himself. She had trouble reconciling this man with her partner. She was supposed to be a good judge of character. How come she never noticed this side of him?

Stan slid his hand off Marshall's shoulder and took a step back. But Mary stood next to her partner, rooted in place, bewildered.

"Marshall…" Stan intended to sound stern, but his voice broke. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then opened his eyes to look at Marshall again. He cleared his throat, but did not get a chance to speak.

"Don't. I'll be here when she wakes up. I'll be here when…" Marshall said, turning away and taking Mary's hand. He did not finish his sentence. From Mary's spot by his side, she could see Marshall's eyes started misting.

"I will put you on administrative leave, Inspector, if you disobey a direct order. You are not doing either of you any favors by keeping a nightly vigil by her bed. Go home." Stan's tone was intense, but Mary had an inkling that Stan was bluffing.

Marshall saw through the bluff too, but unlike Mary, was in a position to call it. Fixing Stan a glare, he said, "No." His tone was devoid of emotion. He had managed to regain his composure during Stan's diatribe. This was not a battle he intended to lose.

"You do what you have to. I'm not going anywhere," Marshall said, staring at Stan defiantly, daring him to push back.

"I'll get you a cot for tonight, but you are not spending another night here tomorrow," Stan said, lowering his voice. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mary." He walked to the door, as though coming to terms with his decision. Putting his hand on the handle, he turned back to Marshall.

"I almost forgot... Why did you take the Rio Grande Exit from Coronado Freeway this morning?"

"You should audition if they ever remake Columbo. It's a crime to waste such talent, Stan."

Stan raised an eyebrow and waited. Mary dropped her hand from Marshall's shoulder and looked from her boss to her partner. Marshall kept his silence for another beat then smirked.

"I picked up a café Mocha and a cheese Danish from the Flying Star. Oh, I get it. You're mad I didn't pick one up for you. I'll get it tomorrow. Cheese, cherry or raspberry with almond flakes?"

"Ugh, Cherry." Stan sighed, and then gave Marshall a pointed look. "God help you, Marshall… if your new favorite coffee place has something to do with driving by Mesa Ridge. Remember what I told you the other day: this is not the time to play Rambo."

"I'll see you at the office, Stan," Marshall said, looking away from the closing door, staring right through Mary. She saw a shadow cross his face. The jovial mask he had put on to address Stan's last question vanished. His jaw was set, lips pressed into a thin line and eyes turned hard. He did not look fazed by Stan nearly calling him out on his new morning routine.

The confrontation between the two men left Mary floundering. She stared at her partner in disbelief. As far as she knew, until now, Marshall had never disobeyed an order. Yet, in the last half an hour he did just that… twice. He was putting his life and career in the Marshals Service in jeopardy. If Stan found out what Marshall was up to every morning before coming into the office, Marshall could lose his badge. She shuddered at the thought. She knew how much the legacy mattered to her partner. She wanted to shake some sense into him: he was putting himself in the harm's way by spreading himself thin between investigating her shooting, antagonizing Lala and spending every other waking moment by her bedside.

Meanwhile, Marshall snapped out of his reverie and rose from his chair. Mary had to step aside to let him pass. He leaned in closer to her body lying on the bed.

"I will never leave you, Sunshine," he whispered, placing a kiss on her temple.

She was surprised at the display of affection. Under different circumstances he would have never dared such intimate contact, but it looked as though all restraint left in him. Grief had a way of lowering inhibitions.

"I'm not letting you go… That promise you hold me to? It works both ways…"

Mary's heart leaped up into her throat, beating frantically. He invoked the promise that she had extracted from him when he was bleeding out in a dusty diner. The beeping of the heart monitor sped up, jarring Marshall out of his thoughts.

"Don't worry about me, Mare." He ran his hand over her hair.

Squelching her panic, Mary took a deep breath and pushed the image from the diner out of her mind. The beeping evened out.

Mary's number one priority had to be finding a way to stop Marshall's self-destructing behavior. But there was little she could do in her present state. She had had her arm around him for the better part of his conversation with Stan, and still, he had felt nothing. Never in her life had she been as helpless as she was at that moment.

"Just get better, Mare," Marshall said, releasing a shaky breath and settling back into the chair. He picked up the book, opening it to the page where he left off when Stan arrived, and started reading softly.

_"I have been silly," she said to him, at last. "I ask your forgiveness. Try to be happy..."_

_He was surprised by this absence of reproaches. He stood there all bewildered, the glass globe held arrested in mid-air. He did not understand this quiet sweetness._

_"Of course I love you," the flower said to him. "It is my fault that you have not known it all the while. That is of no importance. But you- you have been just as foolish as I. Try to be happy..."_

She tried block out on the words Marshall was reading to avoid their meaning. Instead, she allowed the sound of his voice to calm her. Fitting that he had chosen _the Little Prince_…

His earlier display of affection muddled her thoughts. As much as she struggled to keep the memory of sitting by his bedside away, his tender touch evoked all the feelings she had repressed. She was running fingers through his hair then, much like he did just now, whispering words of reassurance and waiting for him to wake up.

This painful recollection drove her to Marshall's side without a conscious thought. She pushed the hair out of his face and placed a soft kiss his forehead. His hair was soft to the touch and his skin warm under her lips. She had to restrain herself from wrapping her arms around his neck, seeking comfort his closeness would provide. She retreated, gripping the rail of her hospital bed.

Marshall raised his head from the book, the flow of words freezing on his lips for a moment, as he glanced around the room. A flicker of hope that he felt her presence flared up in her chest, only to be extinguished when he sighed and returned his attention to the words on the page.

"Mom, no matter what you do, he won't be able to feel you."

Mary heard a young voice behind her. She whipped around and saw a boy sitting in the chair across from Marshall.

"_Did he just call me Mom?"_ she thought, studying the boy in front of her.

He looked like Leo Billups nee Lonny McRoy, a kid who entered the program alone and was adopted by Carter and Wendy Billups. The custody battle with Leo's father had turned nasty, but for Mary and Marshall it had been a moment that defined their partnership.

"_Just tell me what you need."_

Marshall's words echoed in Mary's brain. This was it. To stop Marshall from going down the path of self-destruction, she had to find out what he needed. If only she could ask him... But Marshall could not hear her, as the boy pointed out ever so bluntly but a few seconds earlier. She had to find another way.

Leo did not say anything after making his observation and sat quietly, watching her closely. It was unnerving.

"Jesus, Leo, you scared me," Mary said, making her way to his side. "What are you doing here? And since when do you call me Mom?"

His eyes grew wide.

"What else am I supposed to call you?"

Mary raised an eyebrow, then reached out and felt his head.

"You're not running a fever. Is this your idea of a practical joke? Did Vernon put you up to this?"

"I'm not sick. And I don't know who Vernon is, Mom," Leo said, meeting her eyes.

"Your Dad…" Mary said automatically, noticing that the color of Leo's eyes was a deep blue, not hazel as she remembered.

"I've never met my Dad. You don't talk about him much. But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if you don't believe me."

"You suppose? How old are you, kid?"

"Seriously, Mom? I figured you'd at least remember how old I am. Since you've given birth to me and all… But clearly you don't…" He slumped in the chair.

"I'm ten," he mumbled to the floor.

"Give me a minute. And stop calling me Mom so I can figure this out... Don't you get ribbed at school?"

The boy looked up and Mary saw his eyes sparkle with glee.

"For talking like a grown-up? You want a short or a long answer?" Taking Mary's shrug for encouragement, he continued. "I don't see anything ignominious about being able to articulate my thoughts. Concealing my true nature for the sake of conformity would be an exercise in futility. It's bound to resurface at an inopportune moment only to be rejected by those used to the ruse, leaving me with nothing but a sense of compromised identity. But, in short: no, I don't get teased at school. I can hold my own."

"Great," Mary said, rolling her eyes. If she accepted Leo's claim that she was his mother, and even if the identity of his father remained a mystery, one thing was abundantly clear: Marshall was a prominent influence in this boy's life. There was no other rational explanation for his vocabulary.

"So what are you doing here?" Mary asked, leaning against the wall.

"You know, Mom… Um, Mary…" He shook his head. "This is weird… you yelled at me when I was… um… five for trying to call you Mary…" he muttered under his breath, studying his sneaker clad feet.

Then, he met her eyes and said louder, "As much fun as it's been, continuing this at the hospital with your immobile body on the bed, hooked up to a machine, is somewhat disturbing. Can we talk someplace else? Or better yet, let's go eat. I'm hungry." His stomach rumbled.

Mary smirked. "I don't think you want hospital food, kid… But you're right. What do you feel like eating?"

"How about that Moroccan place we usually go to?" Leo grinned.

"There's no way…" Mary stopped, interrupted by Leo's giggling. "You're just messing with me, right?" Mary asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Let's go to Garcia's," Leo said, jumping off the chair, and reached for her hand.

Mary sighed. How could she explain to a ten year old that the only place she knew how to get to was a coffee shop in the middle of nowhere? Leo did not miss her glum expression.

"Mo… Mary, just picture Garcia's and start walking."

Mary wordlessly stared down at their linked hands, and then at the door.

"You don't necessarily have to walk through a door to get somewhere. You'll wander aimlessly only if you don't know where you're going. Otherwise, you'll get where you want to be. Trust me."

Mary gave him a stunned look.

"_How does he know exactly what I'm thinking? Does he rent a room in my head like…?"_

"Oh, c'mon, Mom! I'm hungry!" Leo whined, tugging on her hand, effectively cutting off her incomplete thought. He headed for the door, pulling her along. Resigned to test Leo's theory, Mary cast a final glance over her shoulder at Marshall, and followed the boy out.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5: Ripple Effect<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."<em>

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

_Le Petit Prince_

* * *

><p>The smell of bacon and pancakes fresh from the griddle wafted into Mary's nostrils. There was no doubt in her mind that they walked into Garcia's Café in the middle of the morning rush: the striped swiveling chairs and the tacky flowered wallpaper were a dead giveaway. It seemed impossible that only a split second earlier she was standing in the hospital room, in the middle of the night, surrounded with machines, IVs, and drugs. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of the absence of the beeping sound, which had followed her around until she got to the hospital. But the loud banging of frying pans and spatulas snapped her back to reality.<p>

"Where do you want to sit?" Leo asked, rolling on the soles of his sneakers.

"Don't care. You?" Mary asked, arching her eyebrow.

"By the counter." Leo flopped into the seat Mary had sat in the day of her fateful fight with Marshall. Her partner's reproachful look floated in her mind's eye.

"_By telling Raph what you do, you've told him what I do. And I wasn't quite ready to share that information with your future husband."_

His words rang in her ears. She cocked her head to the side, trying to escape the remorse commingled with regret washing over at another reminder of what she had done. Having seen Marshall at the hospital, she knew he was hurting. But back then she failed to realize that he was hurting in more ways than one. Now, after some time passed, his adamant denial to leave her side made that much more sense. He had been so furious with her that he left her in the bad neighborhood, where she got shot… Marshall was doing just as she had done when she felt guilty for his gunshot wound. He was staying with her even if it meant watching her die.

"_Jesus, Marshall. This wasn't your fault!"_ she thought emphatically, hoping that her message would get to him somehow… while she figured out how to find a way out of this limbo state to fix it: to fix their relationship. It was not her time to go yet. At the hospital, Leo had promised her answers. And she was damned if she did not get them.

Taking the seat next to Leo, she pointed to the menu and asked, "You know what you want?"

"Yup." As soon as the word left his mouth, a waitress started setting plates piled with French toast, pancakes, eggs, bacon, home fries, and refried beans in front of them.

"Aren't you supposed to take our order first?" Mary asked her, but the woman smiled and walked away with a flourish.

"Unbelievable," Mary snickered.

Leo scoffed. "Good God, you still don't get it, do you?"

"Enlighten me, damn it!"

Unaffected by her murderous glare, he said, "Coffee first. Oh, don't look at me like that." He rolled his eyes. "I meant you, not me. And pass the hot sauce."

"Geez… Anything else I should get you while I'm at it?" Mary asked sarcastically, but took a large swig of coffee from her red mug and handed him the bottle.

"Nope, thanks. I'm cool." He splashed the hot sauce generously over his breakfast. Evidently, her penchant for spicy food was genetic.

Mary had to laugh at his retort. It no longer surprised her that no one dared to pick on this kid at school. His attitude was something else. She finished her coffee, waiting for him to speak, but he kept mum, busy cleaning off his plate.

"Time's up kiddo. Start talking," she said once Leo finished his milk.

"I'd rather show you, than tell you." He grinned, swiping the last piece of French toast from her plate, and popped it into his mouth. "I'm ready if you are."

"Where to now?" Mary asked, not bothering to hide the exasperation in her tone.

"Trust me?" He reached for her hand. She met his gaze. Humbled by hope in his deep blue eyes, she felt compelled to link their fingers.

A plain teakwood door appeared in the middle of the restaurant floor. Except for Mary and Leo, all the other patrons of the establishment seemed oblivious to its existence, carrying on their conversations and enjoying their meals. Mary rose from the chair, dropping Leo's hand, and walked around the door. It was suspended in the thin air. There was no doorjamb either.

"Still need a door, huh?" Leo asked, swiveling around in his chair. "Then what are you waiting for? Open it."

Mary considered briefly that she would make a fool of herself in front of all these good people if they saw her opening an invisible door. But there was no time to waste. Leo was determined to show her something, which she suspected was her key out of this place. She put on the leather gloves she had used to open the door in the tree, and pushed down the brass handle. The door swung open, pulling her off balance with an odd sense of déjà vu. Overwhelmed by the scent of ozone and blinding white light, she was propelled forward.

Just as she expected, once the air cleared, she was sitting on a pile of rocks on the dreaded beach. Only things seemed different this time. The smell of iodine and wet wood was mixed in with the sweet scent of plumeria. The sun was shining brightly, unobstructed by wispy clouds. And except for the sound of gentle surf everything was completely quiet.

Mary rose off the ground and walked through the familiar path down to the shore. The water was still and clear blue instead of murky gray. Even the dark boulders did not bother her as much as they did the last time.

"Well… what do you think?"

Mary turned to the sound Leo's voice. She expected him to show up when she was not looking, so his words did not startle her. He was sitting on top of a large boulder with knees pushed up to his chin and watching her. He cracked a lopsided smile.

"It's different, but who cares?" she asked irritably.

"Try the water." Seeing her reluctance, he cajoled. "Come on, Mary, just go with it."

Last time the water had been freezing. Mary took off her boots, rolled up her jeans and tested the water with her big toe. It was warm and the sand was soft. She took a few steps in, then turned back to face Leo.

"Hmm, not bad. But is there a point to this? I highly doubt you dragged me here for a dip… not after I asked you a serious question."

"What am I, nuts?" He giggled. "The thing is this… your mind controls everything in this world. You're the master of this universe. Not only can you choose where you want to be at any given time, but also who gets to be around you."

Mary shot him a disbelieving glance.

"There's a wrinkle," Leo said, sliding off the boulder.

"Well, of course there is."

"The choice isn't always conscious," Leo continued unfazed by Mary's scoff. He smacked her arm. "Tag! You're it!"

He ran into the surf and around the large boulder leading to the other side of the lagoon. Mary heard him splashing through the water and rushed after him. Spotting him on the beach, she followed him out of the water. If what he said was true…

She dropped onto the sand to put on her socks and boots, and then rose to roll down her jeans. Leo was chasing small waves and kicking up the sand. His feet were dry, she noticed, even though he did not bother taking off his shoes before running through the water. Standing akimbo, she waited for him to quit messing around, but he was completely engrossed in his game.

"Now what?" The tone of her question stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Imagine this beach at night," he said, bending to pick up a small rock. He tossed it into the water. After a loud 'plop', with which the rock broke the surface, everything was still again.

"That's it?" Mary asked, watching circular ripples spreading from the spot where the rock had gone in.

"Uh-huh." He picked up another rock and tossed it after the first.

Leo's suggestion was worth a shot. Mary had nothing to lose.

The darkness descended around them in a matter of seconds. The sun set. The dark sky was full of stars and the moon shined brightly over the water. The faint smell of smoke from the torches that now lined the beach replaced the tropical scent of plumeria.

Awed by the spontaneity of the change, Mary gaped at the moonlight reflecting off the water surface.

"It'll work on people too," Leo said softly, as though listening for something.

A sound of horseshoes clomping in the distance broke the silence.

"That's my cue." He threw his arms around her waist, burying his head into the crook of her arm. "Take care of yourself, Mom." Then, he released her and pointed over her shoulder. "Look!"

At the far end of the sandbar, a tall dark figure was riding a horse. Mary would recognize that lanky silhouette anywhere. Marshall was galloping up the beach, quickly closing the distance between them. Mary glanced back at the spot where Leo stood moments earlier and was unsurprised that he had disappeared.

Marshall tightened the reigns to slow the horse to a trot as he got closer and dismounted gracefully a few yards away from Mary. Panting, he ran to her and pulled her to him tightly. He sighed into her hair, then stepped back locking his gaze with hers.

"Hi," she said quietly, unable to break the spell of his intensely dark eyes.

"Hi," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers softly, relaxing his hold. "You're okay…"

"Yeah. In a manner of speaking." Mary cleared her throat. "How did you get here?"

"Uh… I was riding this horse along the beach. And then I saw you."

Mary saw confusion in his eyes. Until she asked, it had not occurred to him to question what was happening. She felt a cold fist of fear clench her heart. When she had first sat at the café with no recollection of getting there, she found out that she had been shot. If Marshall was here under similar circumstances… she could not bring herself to finish the thought.

She felt his withdrawal immediately: he had to have misinterpreted the reason for the tension that settled in her body. But the fear for his life was binding her ability to speak.

"Marshall," she forced his name out, grasping his shoulders, and staring intently into his eyes. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was at the hospital, reading _The Little Prince_ to you_._ Stan tried kicking me out…" Marshall swallowed harshly.

Mary watched his face: the play of shadows from the torch flames, the reflection of lights twinkling in his eyes. He was still talking, she realized.

"…and then the nurse's aide brought a cot. I must have fallen asleep."

"Let me get this straight. You think this is a dream?" Mary slid her hands down his arms, tightening her hold.

"A pretty good one too, until you started the third degree…"

"Are you sure you weren't at Mesa Ridge, busting Lala's balls?"

"How…" He closed his eyes, leaned against the boulder behind him. "I plead the fifth."

"Cut the crap, Marshall. What the hell were you thinking?"

His eyes opened with a blank look. "No idea what you're talking about. I was at the hospital."

She chewed on her bottom lip, barely able to resist shaking sense into him, since her words did not seem to penetrate his thick skull.

Marshall shifted his gaze away from hers, stared at the water. She held him so there was no room for him to maneuver, unless he turned his training against her. He tested her grip and shot her a pained look. She shoved off him, taking a step back.

"I saw you, idiot. I don't know how it happened, but I was there, damn it."

"What do you mean you were there?"

"I can't explain it. I just was. And don't change the subject, numb nuts."

Marshall shrugged, meeting her eyes. His gaze was full of resolve.

"Lala saw it go down, Mare. He'll crack soon, I can feel it. And then, I will catch the son of a bitch who shot you." Low voice, even tone. Completely atypical for a man, whom she knew to talk about office supplies with more emotion than this.

"Marshall, it's not that I don't want you to catch him… but I can't allow this to be at the price of your life."

"Mare, this isn't your call to make."

"Damn it, Marshall! Listen to me. This stops, and stops now."

"No," he interrupted, shooting her another hard look.

"Jesus, Marshall… if you're so hell bent on doing this, at least bring backup."

"And who might that be, hmm? Stan? Bobby? Mare, I can't risk their lives…"

"But it's fine to risk yours? See a problem with this picture?"

She ripped off the rubber band off her hair, snapped it back, retying her ponytail. "Marshall, please…!"

"Leave it, Mare. You're not winning this one." He pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, tips of his fingers brushing lightly against her jaw, and stepped aside. She reached out for him, reluctant to let go, but he was out of her reach.

"I'm sorry, Sunshine…" he whispered with the wind, as his body started fading slowly away.

"Marshall, no!"

Mary tried to grab his shoulders, but her hands went through the air, which only seconds ago was Marshall's warm and solid body. Another moment later he was gone. She did not pay any attention to the deteriorating weather conditions or any other changes around her. Her thoughts were completely overtaken by concern for Marshall.

She was pacing. The wet sand sliding from under her feet was making it difficult to walk. But then the ground changed into a mixture of blacktop concrete, liberally littered with trash. Loud Latin music, barking of dogs, and clucking of chickens filled the air. Judging by the rough wind and the steam coming from her mouth, she managed to travel through time and space… again. She felt a knot tighten her gut, which was not from her phantom gunshot wound.

Mary shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. She recognized the neighborhood: this had to be a yard or an alley behind the house on Mesa Ridge. Lala's crew was spread out on throw-away furniture, laughing at crude jokes and drinking beer. Lala was sitting in a lounge chair under a pergola.

Marshall emerged from around the corner and strolled right by her. His gait was intentionally relaxed.

"_Great. I'm invisible again,"_ she thought, aggrieved, _"so much for being able to control everything."_

Marshall was wearing his long black wool coat and a leprechaun green scarf. He had always had an odd sense of style as far as Mary was concerned, but that scarf definitely took the cake.

Lala noticed Marshall before his underlings did.

"This is private property," he said with a grim expression.

Marshall strolled casually over to Lala, not paying any mind to the thugs gathering around him, and said, "According to county records, this is a public easement. So, you might want to talk to your contractor."

He took off the scarf and smoothed it out in his hands, settling into a chair next to Lala.

"In case you're wondering? Hundred percent cashmere. Not sure about the color." He tossed the scarf into Lala's face. "It's more your shade."

Mary gasped. Lala tried to grab Marshall's hand, but Marshall was faster. He had the gangbanger in a wrist-lock before the rest of the crew had time to blink.

"Easy, Lala," Marshall said while the man struggled to break free.

Mary heard muffled swearing in Spanish. One of the thugs reached into the waistband of his pants for a gun and cocked it.

"Alto," Lala barked and glared at Marshall. He said, lowering his voice, "Pendejo, you wanna get yourself dead?"

Undeterred by the threat, Marshall did not reduce the pressure on Lala's wrist, and the gangbanger leaned back in pain. Marshall glanced up at the thug with the gun.

"I'm a U.S. Marshal. So, step off, or this goes to a place you can't get back from," he said, pushing his coat aside to reveal his badge, and rested his hand on his gun.

The guy tossed a cigarette aside and walked away with a curse. Marshall let Lala go. The moment he was free, Lala tossed the scarf back at Marshall.

"You don't like green." Marshall smirked and kicked the scarf up with his boot, catching it with his hand. "I get it. Color of the Cinqo Vipers. Your rivals in the thrilling world of pointless territorial dispute and tax-free pharma retail." He waved the scarf around, pontificating.

"So, why would the guy who shot Inspector Sheppard be here, on your turf, in rival colors? Hmm?" He gave Lala a long look, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Inspector Sheppard put a bullet in some part of his body. Who is he? What happened to him? Why are you protecting your enemy?" He shook his finger at Lala. "Don't tell me. I want to figure you out myself. You're like a crossword puzzle with B.O."

Marshall wrapped the green monstrosity around his neck and rose from the chair. He was walking to Mary, grinning. When her partner passed her, Lala followed his example. Mary watched as Lala stared at Marshall's back and reached for something. Forgetting she was transparent, Mary leaped to shield Marshall's back.

"_I have to stop this or Marshall will get himself killed,"_ was Mary's last thought before everything went black.


End file.
